Drowning Rose (34 page)

‘Come over where? I thought you said you were in the car.’

‘I am. But I’m in the car at home.’

Robert’s silver Mercedes was standing in front of the garage, the engine running. It took me a couple of seconds to register that two people, Robert and a woman I didn’t know, were pinioned to the garage wall by the front bumper of the large silver car. I ran up and pulled open the passenger door. Ruth was in the driver’s seat, her hands clutching the steering wheel, her foot hovering above the accelerator pedal.

‘Get her out of there.’ Robert’s voice was high-pitched with terror, but at least he was alive, as was his companion, because she kept opening and closing her mouth.

‘Ruth,’ I said, as calmly as I was able. ‘Ruth dear, why don’t you . . .’

‘Brrrm brrrm,’ said Ruth, as her foot played above the accelerator.

‘Brrrm brrrm, indeed. Absolutely, but why don’t you reverse,
very
slowly and carefully away from the garage door.’

Ruth poked her head out of the window and yelled to the woman. ‘You hear that, you stupid tart, it’s garage. Ga-ra-ge not garridge.’ She pulled her head back and smiled at me. ‘Sometimes you simply have to make a stand,’ she said.

I nodded. ‘Of course you do. But why don’t you just reverse ever so slowly . . . No, don’t touch the accelerator until you’ve put the gear in reverse. I said don’t . . . That’s right. Gently. Gently does it.’

It took some doing but I managed to persuade Robert and the woman not to call the police. Instead I got him to pack Ruth a small bag and then I told him that I needed to take the car to drive Ruth and me back home as I didn’t think she was in the right frame of mind for public transport.

Ruth did not say one word as we drove though the summer streets of London. I thought she was about to as we passed Camden Lock; for some reason Ruth had it in for Camden Lock, and just then I would have welcomed a comment or two about tattoos and graffiti and perhaps a small follow-on mention about the idiocy of the contemporary art scene. But nothing. Ruth sat bolt upright in her seat, her hands clutched in her lap.

‘Goodness,’ I said trying to entice her back to normality. ‘Will you look at that wall. I wouldn’t be surprised if they took it down and rebuilt it as an exhibit at Tate Modern.’ When still she said nothing, I pulled out my trump card. ‘It’d get the Turner Prize, I bet you anything you like.’ But still nothing.

Once back home I helped the silent Ruth into bed and brought her a mug of warm milk with honey. I was about to close the door behind me when she finally spoke. ‘Eliza, what shall I do? Where shall I go?’

I swallowed a sigh. ‘Don’t worry about that. You’re obviously welcome to stay here for as long as it takes. Would you like me to call Lottie?’

Ruth shook her head. ‘No, absolutely not. Anyway, she’s in Chile. What can she do from Chile?’

‘All right. I won’t.’ I took a step back into the room. ‘Do you feel like telling me what happened?’

‘No.’

‘Right. Fair enough. You try to get some sleep. We’ll talk it all through in the morning.’

I went out into the front garden. The night was warm and heady with the scent of mock-orange. I stood there for a while, my face raised to the sky, as I attempted and gave up counting the stars. I thought of the lady painter, Marguerite, and her sister Anna. I wondered how much of the garden and the view of the square were the same now as when they had lived here. I wished I could step though a gate in time and visit them. We’d have a cup of tea, discuss the artists of the day and comment on the beauty of our surroundings. ‘This is our house,’ I’d say. Yours and mine and everyone else’s who called it home. We all live on in the fabric of the house, our essence melded with the paints and the varnishes and the very bricks of the walls. Then, and before I took my leave, I would assure them that I would take the greatest care of our little house and pass it on, eventually, in the best possible state.

A lone saxophone began to play, a mellow, lazy blues. At first I couldn’t hear where the sound was coming from but as the music rose into a melancholy A flat I realised it came from Number 12. I couldn’t tell if someone was playing an actual saxophone, or just a recording, but the sound was good.

I turned my head at the sound of a window being thrown open and saw Archie Fuller’s head popping out from his third-floor window with such speed and vehemence I half expected him to call out ‘cuckoo’.

Instead he shouted, ‘I say, do have some consideration for those of us who are trying to sleep.’

The saxophone responded with a mocking riff – either Archie had made his protest at just the right moment or the music was live. There followed a few last lingering notes and then there was silence. Archie’s head was gone, back to bed with the rest of him, I assumed. The lights of Number 12 went out and I walked back inside.

Thirty-seven

Sandra/Cassandra

To Rose, Julian was just the icing on the cake. But he was my lifeblood. Rose didn’t love him. She didn’t know what love was; she was a child playing an adult game. She would soon get bored with it but by then it would be too late.

The day before the dance, and after nights of lying unable to sleep and with my thoughts whizzing round my head like comets, I felt dizzy with anxiety, but I still had no idea what to do. I just knew that there had to be something.

‘If you want something badly enough you’ll get it,’ that’s what my parents always told me. And I’d thought, well, they can’t have wanted anything very badly at all. I wanted Julian so bad it felt like my insides were on fire. And it came to me that maybe I should just talk to them, the princesses, be straight, tell them what Julian meant to me and appeal to their better nature. I’d say to Rose, ‘Look, you can get any boy you want, so please – don’t take him.’

The princesses were crowded into Portia’s cube with Celia Hunter and Hannah Maitland. I stood in the doorway, a goblin peering in. Eliza looked up from pinning some kind of crazed corsage to the waist of Celia’s frock, and tried to give me a smile with a mouthful of pins. She finished the job and spat out the rest of the pins in the palm of her hand.

‘Aren’t you going to get ready?’ she asked me then turned to the others. ‘Cassandra’s dress is absolutely gorgeous. Brilliant colour, too.’

I smiled back. Oh, it was easy to be nice, I thought, when you have everything. ‘I wanted to have a word,’ I said. ‘With Rose mainly.’

Rose, who was plucking her already perfect eyebrows, turned round. ‘Sure. Shoot.’

‘Can I have your tweezers when you’re done?’ Celia asked Rose.

‘C’mon everyone, it’s only two hours to show-time,’ Portia said. ‘I haven’t even done my nails. Have you done yours, Rose?’ Rose held out a dainty foot. ‘You haven’t. Well, hurry up then. At least I’m wearing sandals but yours will have to be completely dry.’

‘I wondered if we could have a word in private,’ I said, looking at Rose. My voice was casual enough but I was looking at her intently, hoping she’d pick up on it being important. She didn’t. Nor did anyone else. Not even Eliza.

‘Look, Sa . . . Cassandra, can it wait? I’ve got masses of stuff still to do. We’ll talk tomorrow, OK?’

I actually looked quite good once I was dressed and ready. I had used the heated tongs Aunt Gina had given me for my birthday and for once my frizz did resemble golden curls. I used almost an entire can of strong-hold Elnette so as long as it didn’t rain the look should last the evening. Beads of sweat kept rising to the surface of my armpits and the palms of my hands. I dabbed them away with a tissue and sprayed on some more of the Fenjal deodorant. It was really expensive and I knew only one shop that sold it, but Julian loved the smell, he had told me.

The party committee had turned the assembly hall into a glittering grotto with the aid of some old sails and a load of fairy lights. It looked pretty cool, actually. Miss Grant, Miss Robbins and Mr Loftus, the three members of staff in charge, were wandering around trying to look as if they were comfortable. Mr Loftus looked ridiculous in a pink shirt and a black knitted tie. Miss Grant and Miss Robbins just looked like they always did but in brighter colours. The boys’ coach had arrived but I couldn’t see Julian anywhere. I couldn’t see the princesses either. I pushed through the throng to the far side of the room but still they were nowhere to be seen. ‘Oi, watch where you’re going.’ It was Celia. I hadn’t even realised that I’d bumped into her.

‘Have you seen Rose and Eliza anywhere? Or Portia?’

‘No. You look weird. Well, weirder. What’s the matter?’

I narrowed my eyes at her and she rolled hers and we walked off in opposite directions. I saw Hannah by the drinks table. I waved and called out. ‘Have you seen the others?’

‘What others?’

I swallowed my annoyance. ‘Eliza and Rose and Portia. Why aren’t they here?’

‘Are you all right, Sandra? You look . . .’

‘Don’t call me Sandra.’ The correction was automatic because just then I didn’t care what anyone called me as long as by the end of the night he, Julian, was back to calling me his baby.

Hannah shrugged. ‘Sorry. Always forget. Anyway, I don’t know where they are. Have a glass of punch. It’s almost as revolting as it looks.’

‘No, thank you.’ I continued on until I got to the emergency exit right at the other end of the hall. I slipped outside and the next thing I knew I was face to face with the three of them. ‘Hi, Cassandra.’ Eliza gave me a big smile as if seeing me was just the best thing that could have happened to her at that moment.

‘Don’t you look great. Doesn’t she look great, guys?’

She, of course, was looking amazing in a medieval-style green velvet dress that trailed the floor. She was wearing a garland of pale yellow flowers and her Titian hair tumbled halfway down her back. Portia had gone for public-school tart in a sleeveless short black dress and sky-high gold sandals and her blonde hair was arranged in an artfully messy up-do. And Rose . . . I found myself smiling at her before I realised what I was doing, because she was so beautiful it was impossible not to. She too was wearing flowers in her hair, white ones to match her dress, that was gauzy and fitted as perfectly as if it had been stitched straight on to her.

As I stared at her my smile died away. She was perfect and there was no boy on this earth who would say no to her. I felt the tears rise in my eyes and I muttered something and hurried off. I heard Eliza call after me but I didn’t stop until I was out of sight. The Folly was out of bounds for pupils at all times and for the evening they had gone so far as to fence it off with the kind of tape they use to fence off a crime scene. As if that would stop anyone.

I sat there on the cold stone floor listening to the laughter and the music, which seemed to come from so far away it might have been another planet. The princesses’ planet. It wasn’t fair, I thought. Rose was not particularly clever or funny or even nice. Other than for the way she looked she was ordinary. But if you were that beautiful people forgot to look for anything else. It was like being royalty. You smiled and everyone felt like the sun had come out just for them. You spoke, and even the most commonplace of your utterances was noted and savoured and brought out again and again to impress at dinners and family celebrations.

I don’t know how long I sat there but when I next checked it was ten thirty and the moon was high. I got up and went back into the throng of the assembly hall. I wanted to find Julian. I wanted to see him so badly it hurt but I couldn’t see him anywhere. On my way out again I spotted the princesses huddled in the corner by the door. I realised they must be going over their plan, their stupid, unfair, bad plan. Next, Portia peeled off, going off towards the dance floor. It seemed I wasn’t the only one looking for Julian. Rose and Eliza waited a couple of minutes before going outside. Another few minutes went by and then I too left, following them.

Thirty-eight

Eliza

Three weeks after the incident at the garage Ruth went off to stay with her late mother’s cousin in the country. ‘But don’t worry. I’ll be back in a couple of days.’ She raised her hand out of the car window and gave a little wave as she drove off.

It had taken her several days to be able to tell me exactly what had happened. It was the old story. She had found a receipt in the pocket of a pair of his chinos she was washing. As often as that seemed to happen it struck me that the first rule of conducting an affair would be to do your own laundry. The receipt was for a pair of pearl ear studs. Ruth didn’t have pierced ears. This, added to her earlier suspicions aroused by his furtive manner around his mobile and his many work ‘dos’, convinced her that her husband was indeed guilty. That evening, when Robert got home, she informed him that she was going to stay the night with a friend from work. A friend who could do with some company. ‘Her husband’s been having an affair,’ Ruth told Robert, enjoying the sight of his little old boy’s face appearing to crumple and shrink.

Of course, Ruth was not going anywhere. Instead she had collected a blanket, a thermos of coffee and a bag of Devon cream toffees, and gone to hide behind the wheely bins. There she waited. She waited for what seemed like a very long time – how long she wasn’t sure as it was too dark behind the bins for her to be able to read her watch. Finally the silver Mercedes drove up with a woman Ruth recognised but didn’t know, in the front passenger seat. The woman had the kind of short perky hairstyle given to middle-aged women on makeover programmes. Now Robert was not the kind of man to leave his car out overnight when there was the prospect of rain, so the woman, who had brought an overnight bag, got out to open the garage door. But the door was stiff and heavy and Robert had to get out to help her. That’s when Ruth had sprung out from behind the bins and leapt into the car with a speed and agility that had taken even her by surprise.